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Whistling by GraveyardsEpithets5 Eulogy from the Editors7 Movie Review8 The Raven14 A Bloodletting in Alabama18 The Replacement Groundskeeper24 Paranormal Television: Impact on Horror Writing29 The Undiscovered Country: Jason Cornelius



Eulogy from the Editors Whistling by Graveyards StaffContent in this space would be the “letter Publisherfrom the editor” where one or more of us Scott Chastainwrite a piece on a general horror theme,tying it into the stories in the magazine Associate Publisherthis edition (editions for the first year Jason Corneliuswill be every two months – so 6 per year –to be increased as we build a subscriber Editorsbase and as submissions warrant). It will Scott Chastainalso discuss the nonfiction piece and the Jason Corneliusartwork included in the magazine. A great Wendy Corneliusway for us to pimp our own work as well as Helene Keatingothers looking for a break. Art Director Helene Keating Advertising Representative Wendy Cornelius WBG Column Editors Movie Review Jason Cornelius Nonfiction Articles Wendy Cornelius The Undiscovered Country Scott Chastain

Advertisements on this page (For our first go, it will be ourown works that we are advertising, haha). Hopefully we can gainenough subscribers that we can attract paid ads from others).

Movie Review Whistling by Graveyards is a bimonthly publication devoted to providing a podiumBy Jason Cornelius for unheard horror authors, poets, and artists to have their voice.The Dark TowerYou get to review your horror movie pick Opinions expressed and statements madehere – I would expect the Dark Tower will be in this magazine by the article authors oron your list. those quoted within articles do not necessarily represent the opinion of the editors of this magazine. Subscriptions are provided complimentary upon request. Subscribe at www.whistlingbygraveyards.com Editorial Policies Whistling by Graveyards reviews unsolicited articles, short stories, serial stories, artwork, and poetry by relatively unknown authors, artists, and poets. Not all submissions will be accepted for publication. Publication Guidelines Whistling by Graveyards operates under similar rules given for an MPAA film rating of R. Explicit gore, violence, sexual content, or overuse of profanity will not be considered as acceptable. Previously published works are also not acceptable, nor are any publications with extensive quotations of other works, or other work that would constitute plagiarism. Authors, artists, and poets will retain all rights to their individuals works. We only ask that if published again, that a remark that it was published in this magazine be provided. Nondiscrimination Policy There will be no discrimination against any individual based upon ethnicity, culture, race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, gender expression, gender identity, political affiliation, or disability. Age is limited to 18 and over.

The Raven BY EDGAR ALLAN POEOnce upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said “Nevermore.” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore’.” But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!